Disclaimer: : I fully acknowledge that Paramount has exclusive rights to
the Star Trek universe, All Rights Reserved,  and that all characters
and locations are the property of Paramount television. No infringement
is intended. STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark Æ of
Paramount Pictures.

PRET A PORTER

I spent most of the journey to Earth worrying about whether or not Garak
was still alive, or whether he'd succumbed to some assassin's dagger in
the backstreets of Montmartre.   I feared that he was dead or dying, and
even in my more optimistic moments  pictured him holed up in some hotel
cell, going out only at night and shunned like a leper for his
Cardassian origins.  The message had not been reassuring.  It had read
simply
  'Doctor.  Been stabbed.  Suggest you come at once.  G.'
He'd also left an automatic message telling me that his whereabouts
could not be revealed, but that I was to go to a sealed locker in Orly
spaceport, punch in a code, and his current address would be inside.  I
was also to come armed.

So it was hardly surprising that I envisioned myself dashing to his
rescue, but by the time I got to Paris I was afraid I'd be too late.
Orly spaceport was a warren of corridors and rooms, and it took some
time to find the locker.  Inside, was a note bearing the address of a
hotel on the Left Bank; undoubtedly some seedy backstreet dive. I
thought of Garak, alone and hurt in an alien city on the brink of
winter, and my heart contracted painfully.  I ran outside and flagged
down a taxi, watching the grey streets go by in an agony of
anticipation.

Contrary to my expectations, the Hotel Normandie resembled an ornate
wedding cake, and overlooked the grand and sombre bulk of Notre Dame
across the river.  In the foyer, an aristocratic receptionist informed
me with a sniff that M. Garak was upstairs, and waiting for me.  I did
not bother with the crowded lift, but took the two short flights at a
run and burst through the door of Room 202.

Startled, Garak looked up.   One of the loveliest girls I'd ever seen
slid down from his knees and undulated towards the door. If I hadn't
been so painfully aware that genetic engineering was banned I might have
suspected her ancestry of including both tigress and gazelle.  She
didn't spare me a second glance, needless to say.  As she reached the
door, she turned and blew a kiss to the tailor, and then was gone in a
drift of some subtle perfume.  Garak greeted my appearance with every
indication of delight.  For someone who'd apparently been knifed, he was
certainly the picture of health, I thought sourly.
  'Doctor!  You're here at last.'
  'Who,' I said, coldly 'was *that*?'
  'Omani?  Oh, she's one of my girls.  Enchanting young lady, so
unaffected and natural.'
  '*Your girls*?'
  'Yes, one of my little harem.'
I collapsed into a Louis XVV  chair.
  'You told me when you left the station that this was a mission.  On
behalf of your old friend V'Arek Escatur of the revised Tal Shiar, to
prevent the assassination of the Romulan ambassador.'
  'But it is.'
  'And here you are, swanning around the Left Bank like some - like some
-'  Words failed me.  Garak supplied them, helpfully.
  'I think the phrase you're looking for might be 'galactically famous
Cardassian couturier.''
Things became a little clearer.
  'Ah.' I said.  'Then that girl was a model?'
  'I can see, Doctor, that it's going to be difficult to pull the wool
over your eyes on this particular trip,' the tailor said, not without
irony.  'Of course, when V'Arek had a quiet word with me about the
possibility of assassination, what neither he nor I had grasped was that
Ambassador Dhirhan is a keen follower of fashion, and would be attending
the season's collections during her time in Paris.  So V'Arek and I put
our heads together and came up with what might best be described as a
cunning plan...and ever since then I've been, well, plying my trade in
the pleasant confines of the Normandie.'
  'But you told me you'd been stabbed!'  Garak looked completely blank
for an instant, then said
  'Oh, that.  Sorry, I'd forgotten all about that.  Were you worried?'
At that particular moment I'd cheerfully have knifed him myself.  'No,
that was just Ala Kefti being melodramatic - you see, I really couldn't
agree with her that Rem Shamiriz exemplifies abstract revisionism and
before I knew where I was she'd lunged at me with a dessert fork.
Artists, you know - they do take things to heart.  Now when I was trying
to make a career as a watercolourist, I remember -'
Ruthlessly, I stopped him in mid stride.
  'But doesn't anyone - I mean, you're a Cardassian.  Hasn't it caused
any problems?'
The tailor appeared baffled.
  '*Au contraire.*  V'Arek seems to have pulled a few strings and the
authorities let me in without a murmur.  And the girls have been
absolutely delightful.  I think I might be a little bit of a novelty to
them, so -'
As he was speaking it had slowly begun to dawn on me that the room in
which we were sitting was filled with clothes.  Armfuls of silk and
velvet and lace were heaped across the bed, and a headless mannequin was
wearing an extravagant creation of oyster satin and blonde leather.
  'Wait a minute,' I said, slowly.  'Are you telling me that you're in
the process of producing a collection?'
  'My abilities do extend rather further than the hem of your trousers,
Doctor.  I am, after all, a couturier.'
At that moment the door opened and a second exquisite creature wandered
in.  She wound her arms around Garak's neck, enveloping him in a flood
of raven hair, and whispered in his ear.
  'Doctor, I'm terribly sorry,' Garak said, looking anything but
apologetic.  'But duty calls...Where precisely has it come loose, my
dear?'
  'The seam's given out,' the model whispered, giving him a melting
glance.  'At the back.  I tried to mend it, but I just couldn't do it
all by myself.'
  'Well, I'd better have a look,' Garak said, comfortingly.  I found,
with a dim sense of shame, that I had begun to grind my teeth.
  'Keep still for a moment, Laducia,' the tailor said through a mouthful
of pins, and I realised why the young woman was so familiar.  I'd seen
her face on every advertising broadcast from here to Bajor.
  'Always a problem,' Garak said over his shoulder as he divested the
model of her clothes.  'It's her spines, you see, they get trapped in
the stitching...'
All she was wearing was a thong.  I stared grimly out of the window at
passing pigeons.
  'Now,' Garak said, once the girl had thanked him and gone.  'I suggest
that you and I go and get something to eat, and then you can tell me
everything that's happened since I've been away.'

When we reached the restaurant, a little place in the Rue Cligny, the
proprietor greeted Garak as though the latter had been dining there
since early childhood.
  'Such pleasant people,' Garak sighed as we sat down. 'So *civilised*.
Really, Doctor, I'm almost sorry I never made the effort to visit your
little planet before.'  I could not bring myself to reply.
Any visions I might have entertained of a quiet tete a tete were
shattered when a continual stream of people greeted Garak like long lost
friends.
  'You've only been here a fortnight,' I hissed during a momentary
lull.  'You seem to know everyone.'
  'Oh, one or two people, perhaps...hardly *tout le monde* - excuse me a
moment.  I just want a quick word with Naldi...' and he was across the
room before I could protest.  I stared glumly at the back of Naldi's
famous head and reflected that any romantic plans I might have had of
rescuing Garak were entirely superfluous.
  'Excuse me,' a voice breathed, interrupting my meditations.  I looked
up.  A pair of violet eyes were gazing into mine.
'My name's Dynci,' she whispered, modestly lowering her lashes.  'I'm so
very sorry to trouble you.  I wonder if you could help me...'  Her voice
trailed away.  Mentally, I reviewed the options: death, slaying dragons
or swimming the English Channel with rocks tied to my feet all seemed
perfectly acceptable.
  'Was that really Elim Garak you were talking to?'  She clasped her
hands.  'Could you - would you - introduce me to him?'  She bit her lip
in excitement.  I sighed.  I thought I knew how the rest of the trip was
going to go.

Eventually we returned to the hotel and Garak arranged a temporary bed
for me on the couch.  I can't say I slept well.  People kept knocking on
the door, and once I awoke to hear a muffled whispering, interspersed by
stifled giggles.  It was not unlike having mice.  At last I must have
dropped off, because I dreamed that I was running through racks and
racks of clothing, endless and stifling.  Then Garak was shaking me by
the shoulder and I felt his cool hand across my mouth.  To my surprise,
it was close to dawn.
  'Doctor?' the familiar voice whispered.  'I'll need you for the next
few minutes, I'm afraid.'
He led me by the arm to the balcony.
  'Stay here,' he murmured.  'Keep an eye on the courtyard.'
The balcony ran along the front of the hotel and turned the corner. On
one side lay the Quai de Montebello, on the other, a partially walled
courtyard containing an ornamental fountain.  I waited, shivering in the
early morning cold.  The sun was rising, half hidden by cloud and
sending a chilly light across the river.  Opposite, the bony bulk of
Notre Dame rose up, seemingly from the luminous water itself.  Even in
sunlight Paris is coloured in monotones: sepia and ochre and grey, and
now at dawn it seemed unreal, a city of shadows.  I peered into the well
of the courtyard.  Catching movement, I started, but it was only a cat,
jumping down from the wall.  Then I saw the figure.  It was standing
motionless in the darkness at the foot of the wall; as I watched, I saw
Garak slide around the corner of the building.  The figure did not
move.  Evidently Garak had not seen it; he was glancing this way and
that, looking in the direction of the Quai.  Unhurriedly, the figure
rose and padded through the shadows to the riverside.  I could see only
that it was tall, nothing more.  In as low a  voice as I could manage, I
called Garak's name.  He glanced up, sharply.
  'There was someone over there,' I told him.  'Over by the wall, but
they've gone now.'
  'I'm coming up,' Garak said briefly, and reappeared through the French
doors.
  'Could you see their face?' he asked.  I shook my head.
  'No/  Except that it was tall, and I think it was a woman.'
  'Marvellous,' the Cardassian said bitterly.  'That describes only
ninety percent of the local population.  However, I suppose it confirms
my suspicions in one direction.'
  'Which is?'
  'I've had the distinct impression lately that one of my young ladies
is not all that she seems...'
  'The assassin!'
  'Indeed.  I'd be obliged if you didn't talk about it indoors; the room
is almost certainly bugged.'
He leaned against the balcony rail and ran a hand through his hair.  In
the grey light, he seemed indistinct, lost against the city like a
ghost.  I blinked and he said
  'Well, we have just over a day to find out.  The shows don't begin
until noon tomorrow.  Plenty of time.'  He paused.  'She's a brave
woman, Ilaya Dhirhan, even if she has been a little reckless in her
political affiliations in the past.  I used to know her, when she was
working for the Romulan Civil Service.  I was a very lowly functionary
myself at that point, of course,' he continued, automatically.  'Ironic,
I suppose, that now I should be trying to save her life.'
I didn't even think to ask him why.  The game that we played was too
long established for that.  Garak shivered suddenly.
  'It's a cold place, this world of yours,' he murmured.
  'Not always,' I said before I could help myself, and as he stepped
through the door I thought I saw him smile.

The day was spent in a froth of couture.  At nine the fitter arrived
from Lenach, one of the older fashion houses.  Madame Mina was
quintessentially French: a chic, angular woman of indeterminate age,
clad in a grey tunic suit of intimidating severity.  Instantly the
flurry of activity around Garak became subdued and quiet.  Omani,
Laducia and Naldi, who had been whooping and yelping with excitement,
fell silent and tiptoed around their mentor.  Having caught sight of Mme
Mina's basilisk stare, I could see why.
  'M. Garak,' she said, stonily.  '*What* is this?'
She held up a silky square which I initially presumed to be a stray
handkerchief, but which turned out to be something one wore.
'It's a slip dress,' Garak said patiently.  'Made from Remurian
chiffon.  Trust me; it'll look entirely different when it's on.'
  'There isn't enough to cover a - *bien*.  Doubtless you know best,'
Mme Mina said, incredulously.  By noon it was clear that hostilities had
long since been declared.  Mme Mina cast covert aspersions on everything
from Garak's character to his taste in fabrics, and the tailor, in turn,
spoke with a politeness as smooth as the velvet of his dresses, and far
more offensive than if he'd rained curses on her head.  The afternoon
culminated in a biting argument over Laducia's measurements.
  'Am I to understand, madame,' Garak said through his teeth 'That you
consider me to have no place in the world of couture?'
  '*Non*,' Mme Mina replied, with a saccharine smile worthy of the
Cardassian himself.  'In fact, I think you'd make a lovely handbag.'
After that, the afternoon's proceedings took place in glacial silence.
The three girls - reputedly the haughtiest in the business - stood
meekly as lambs and let themselves be pulled and patted in and out of
their clothes.  When Mme Mina eventually stalked through the door they
wound themselves around the Cardassian and hung on, in silent sympathy.
He looked, I thought with disgust, as though he'd had a thoroughly
enjoyable day.  I could have been searching for clues to our assassin's
identity, and all I'd done had been to sit and watch.  I said as much
when we were finally alone for the lunchtime break.
  'So,' Garak said, regarding me with an unfriendly eye.  'You're
complaining because you've done nothing all day except watch beautiful
young women take their clothes off.  I hadn't realised you were such a
devoted opponent of hedonism.  Next time I'll have to make sure I get an
assignment in somewhere more rigorous - an iridium mine on one of the
Phlebus asteroids, perhaps -'
  'I didn't mean -'
   ' - or perhaps you'd prefer a stint in a Calaftari sewage plant?'
  'No, I -'
  'Lunch, Doctor?  Or shall I ring room service and get them to bring
you a dry crust and a glass of water?'
With as much dignity as I could muster I said
  'We'll find a restaurant, shall we?'
 
Over the course of the afternoon, I observed the three models as closely
as I could, in the hope of discovering some more sinister aspect to
their personalities.  They'd now decided that, since I was Garak's
friend, I must be worth knowing and had adopted me as a sort of
surrogate brother.  I was, I admit, beginning to feel my age; it was
with a sinking sense of dismay that I realised I was now at least
fifteen years older than Naldi.  I found it very hard to regard any of
them as a potential assassin.  Omani and Naldi were both human; Omani
from one of the Caribbean islands, and Naldi from New Bahrain, whereas
Laducia was originally from Tebinthis, a planet in the Panoplus system.
She had enormous golden eyes and a tremulous smile; I found myself
hoping that it wasn't Laducia.  Then, I recalled something that had been
tugging at my memory  all morning: a dim recollection of some
territorial dispute between Laducia's homeworld of Tebinthis and the
Romulan Empire.  I began to watch the model with an even greater degree
of interest, but other suspicions were also beginning to surface.  Mme
Mina had been a model once, so Garak had told me over lunch, and she
still had her slender figure and height.  The girls all seemed too young
and inexperienced to play a convincing role as a disaffected ex-Tal
Shiar assassin - you can disguise a person, but only to a certain degree
- but I could well believe Mme Mina of committing a callous act of
murder in the middle of a fashion show.  She had that steely, determined
quality that led me to regard her as capable of anything.  Of course, it
might just have been that I was taking a stereotypically male view of
the whole situation, I told myself severely.  Perhaps it was one of the
girls, after all.

That evening, over a pleasant dinner, I voiced my suspicions.  Garak had
chosen somewhere a little less chic, so that we could talk undisturbed,
and he listened attentively to what I had to say.
  'So,' he said, consideringly. 'You think it might be Mina?'
  'She's certainly tough enough for a hired killer.  And she behaves as
though she despises you, to be perfectly frank.'
Garak gave an ambivalent smile.
  'She does, doesn't she?'
  'In fact, she was acting today as though she hates you.  I'm wondering
whether she knows who you really are.'
  'I doubt it, Doctor.  Even I don't know that.  But still, you could
very well be right.'
We finished our meal in a contemplative silence and returned for an
early night.  The long trip had taken its toll on me; I slept like the
dead until I was awoken by what I can only describe as a loud muffled
crunch.

The sound had come from Garak's room.  Leaping from the couch, I rushed
in.  The scene within resembled an explosion in a hen house: the air was
filled with feathers.  Sneezing, I backed away and came into contact
with a solid body.  Blindly, I struck out, but my arms were grasped in
an unbreakable grip.
  'It's only me,' Garak said mildly into my ear.
  'What happened?'  It was at that point that I realised he was fully
dressed.  He smelled of fresh air and smoke.  'Where have you been?'
  'Well, I intended to suggest that you went with me, but you looked so
peaceful I decided to let you sleep in peace.'    He paused.  'I'm
sorry, Doctor.  If I'd known there was going to be an attempt on my life
I'd never have left you here on your own.  I -'
  'Don't worry about it,' I said.  'I'm sorry I can't be of more help: I
didn't see anyone.  The first I knew about it was when the explosion
happened.'
  Let me have a look,' Garak murmured.  He stepped through the bedroom
door and contemplated the ruination in silence.
  'The management's not going to like this,' he commented, ruefully.
The room was a scene of utter devastation: furniture  shredded into
splinters and the curtains hanging in tatters.  'Have you noticed,
Doctor, that people always seem to be trying to blow me up?  Including
me, I suppose.  Still, I'm not sorry it's happened.  It shows someone
cares...'
He plucked a thin core of metal from the floor.  'Minimised percussion
device.  Neat.  The Tal Shiar used to use them a lot whenever they
wanted to make a statement.'
  'Are you going to tell me where you've been?' I demanded.
  'Actually, I decided to go for a stroll...Paris by night and all that
-' he caught my eye and abandoned the game.  'I've been up to Pigalle.
There was someone I wanted to pay a visit to, or perhaps I should say,
keep an eye on.'
I waited, but he said no more.  With some trepidation, we called the
hotel manager and explained the situation as best we could.  In the
tradition of non-astonishment, practised in all the greatest hotels, the
manager simply raised an eyebrow and said that he'd arrange to have the
room cleaned.
 'Put it on my bill,' Garak told him, and he left with a bow.  Garak
turned to me.  'What with one thing and another, this is turning out to
be an expensive trip for V'Arek.  I used to pride myself on being
economical, too.  Oh, well.  I only hope the Ambassador's worth it.'

After this, sleep was out of the question.  I dressed and we went down
to the Left Bank in search of coffee.  Paris was beginning to come alive
at this hour of the morning, and we sat in front of a cafe and watched
the various people going about their business.
  'A pleasant place,' Garak said.  'I'd like to spend more time here -
off duty, of course.'  He smiled at me.  'And you, Doctor?  Are you
enjoying yourself?'
Only Garak could get away with asking a question like that after I'd
almost been blown sky high, but to my surprise, I found that it was
true.  The subtle enchantment of the city was performing its usual
magic, and it suddenly struck me that there was no-one I would rather
experience it with.  Garak, too, seemed different here: less tense,
strangely enough, and I began to realise the extent of his frustration
on the station.  He loved problems and intrigue; denied these, he must
have been terminally bored.  We sat and sipped our coffee in a
companionable silence.  The cafe was decorated in the style of a
nineteenth century salon: I half expected Proust to stroll in.  Pages
from old fashion magazine lined one wall and I noticed that Garak was
studying them, presumably in search of ideas.  My knowledge of couture
was woefully limited.
  'When do these date from?' I asked.
  'Late twentieth century,' the tailor said, squinting. 'Some
interesting concepts.'
  ' ìInteresting" is one way of putting it,' I said, looking at a photo
of a woman wearing only a large fig leaf and platform shoes.
  'Vivian Westwood: a contemporary genius...I must say, the history of
human fashion has been much more varied than Cardassia's,' Garak
remarked, with reluctant admiration.
  'I can't say I find this period terribly appealing,' I told him. 'And
why are all the models so thin?'
Garak shrugged.
  'Fashion, Doctor.'
  'They all look like adolescent boys - they don't all look like that
nowadays.'
  'Well, fashions change; that's the nature of it.  I must admit, I'd
have found using such thin girls very limiting.  You need a range -
different clothes suit different people.' He smiled.  'It probably
reflects the designers' preoccupations.'
  'And they don't look very healthy, either.  And miserable as sin.'
  'Beauty is subjective, after all.  I'm sure at the time they were
considered the height of loveliness...Very few people would be
considered gorgeous in every age.  There are exceptions, of course,' he
murmured, with a significance that I found vaguely disturbing.  Our eyes
met.
  'Don't you have a show to put on?' I said.
  'And an assassin to catch...I must say, Julian, there's nothing like a
narrow escape from death.  Focuses the mind wonderfully.'

Immediately on our return, Garak became enveloped in a whirl of activity
which only intensified once we transferred to the salon in which the
collections would be shown.
Omani, Naldi and Laducia were in the process of becoming transformed
into eighteenth century courtesans.  I'd assumed that Garak's fashions
would be influenced by whatever the dominant Cardassian trend might be,
but to my surprise the clothes were beautifully and traditionally
French: magnificent skirts beneath velvet bodices; trimmed riding
jackets and high boots.
  'Very belle Èpoque,' Garak said, looking at his harem with
admiration.  'Of course, I could never get away with this on the
station.  I mean, where would you wear it?  Quark's?  Hardly.  It's been
delightful to get away from the pedestrian.'  He cast a disparaging eye
over my regulation uniform.  'Right, Doctor, get your clothes off.  I'm
not having you lowering the tone.'
  'What!'
  'Well, traditionally, the final thing shown is a bridal dress,
so.....'
  'You're not serious!'
  'Whyever not?  I think you and Laducia would make a lovely couple, at
least on the catwalk.  Here, put this on,' and he handed me a well cut,
and very sober, morning suit.  I felt myself go limp with relief.
  'Moreover,' Garak murmured into my ear 'I'd like you to be out there
in order to cast your eye over whoever might be watching.'
I glanced at the three girls, intent on their maquillage, then turned my
attention to my own outfit.

As the last collection to show, we waited nervously behind the scenes as
the girls from the fashion house of Serveca paraded along the catwalk.
Garak was, I noticed, keeping a close watch on the three principal
models, and his gaze kept straying towards the black clad figure of Mme
Mina.  At last our turn came, and the next quarter of an hour passed in
a flurry of activity as our principals displayed their garments.
  'You're on,' Garak hissed as Laducia raced in, stripped off her slip
and began struggling into the lavish confection of the bridal dress.
'Here,' he added in an undertone, slipping something hard and smooth
into the pocket of my morning suit.  Automatically, my hand reached for
it.  It was a phaser.  I looked into Garak's guileless blue eyes.
  'Accessories,' my tailor murmured.  'Always such an important part of
an outfit, wouldn't you say?'
- and then with a gentle shove he propelled me onto the catwalk, arm in
arm with Laducia.

I'd never really considered that I might be called upon to do this sort
of thing.  Desperately, I tried to remember what models did in fashion
shows.  I stepped forward.
  'And try not to mince,' came a voice behind me, adding, I felt, insult
to injury. I endeavoured to match my step to Laducia's: she sashayed
along, throwing arch glances over her shoulder.  I suppose it was rather
like dancing.  As we neared the centre of the catwalk, I realised that
the applause was growing: even at the very front row of the salon, where
the fashion editors were on their feet and crowing like a flock of
ravens.  Venturing to look up I could see the equivalent of the Royal
Box, where Ambassador Dhirhan was standing.  She was a tall, austere
woman, dressed in the typical trapezoid uniform.  According to Garak,
she was a devotee of this kind of occasion, yet she looked exactly the
same as every other Romulan to me.  She was wearing a fixed, artificial
smile.  Flowers rained about our feet as Laducia and I neared the end of
the catwalk, and it seemed that even Ambassador Dhirhan was moved by my
beautiful, temporary bride, because she was reaching into her stiff
jacket, perhaps to throw a posy of her own - then I realised, almost a
split second too late.  I swept Laducia off her feet and threw her into
the crowd, leaped from the edge of the catwalk and fired.  The bolt from
the Ambassador's disrupter fired wide, hitting the cable of the
chandelier.  Parisians fled in all directions as it shuddered and fell
with a great splintering crash into the middle of the catwalk, and then
there was silence.

Well, the whole thing was horribly embarrassing.  We made all the
evening editions, and my face was plastered all over the cover of Paris
Match.  I was, it seemed, the hero of the hour.  Photographers clamoured
for pictures of the edusieth Laducia and I - apparently, the closest
translation is 'heiress to the throne of heaven'; the Tebinthians having
rather a talent for hyperbole.  I hadn't even realised Laducia was
royal, but I soon learned.
  'If you paid more attention to fashion,' Garak sighed 'Of course you'd
have known that basic piece of information.  Don't you remember the fuss
when she slipped out of the palace one night and ran away to Earth to
become a model?  Really, do I have to tell you *everything*? I -' but he
was interrupted by the communicator.
'For you,' he said, handing it to me.  'I think it's Vogue.'

Eventually I learned what had happened.  It seems that Ambassador
Dhirhan had been harbouring political ambitions very far removed from
the party line.  She had hoped that her assassination of Laducia would
provoke a political crisis on Tebinthis, leaving the way open for an
extreme Romulan faction to take over the planet.
  'The Romulan Empire's been divided over the Tebinthian question for
decades,' Garak explained over dinner.  'It's right on the very edge of
their territory and the Federation's, and it's always managed to retain
its neutrality.  The saner elements of the Romulan Government have left
it well alone, but it's always been a political hot potato.  So
Dhirhan's coterie decided to force the Empire's hand.  I suspected, and
so did V'Arek, but we weren't sure. She'd taken very good care to throw
the smokescreen of her own assassination at us.'
  'But how did you suspect?'
  'As you know, my method has always been founded upon the observation
of trifles...I could never quite believe that a Romulan would be such a
devoted student of fashion.  I mean, those shoulder pads...so passÈ.
More wine, Julian?'  Methodically, he refilled my glass.  'Quite an
amusing little Chablis...do you think I might be going native?'
I laughed.
  'I think you might be turning into a Parisian.'
Garak looked rather flattered.
  'Do you think so?  Well, we have a few days to find out.  I've
rebooked our flights for Friday, if that suits you.  You can show me
some of the sights - I've hardly had a moment's peace while I've been
here.  Not tomorrow, though; I'm taking Mina to lunch.'
  'I beg your pardon?'
  'You surely don't think I've been agonising over you during the whole
of my stay?  No, I really didn't feel like putting myself through all
this without some consolation,' He paused.   'And although the girls are
adorable, they're much too young for someone of my advanced years.  I'd
take character over prettiness, any day, and clearly it's true what they
say about Frenchwomen of a certain age. Mina really has been quite
charming, and I must say she's picked up the nuances of Cardassian
courtship rituals with considerable Èlan, as you observed.  And so
creative in her use of the diminishing pejorative,'  he said, shaking
his head with admiration.  'However, you're here now.  Mina took to you
at once, by the way - she was congratulating me on my good taste.
Thinks we're rather well suited.  Why are you looking so astounded,
Doctor?  The collection's been a success and you're a hero: we may as
well celebrate a little.  After all, isn't there that saying about Paris
in the wintertime?'
I found my voice.
  'Not quite.  But I prefer your version, somehow,'
and I reached across the table to take his hand.

THE END